


Wherever You Will Go

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bickering, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:58:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5662117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite their constant bickering, Illya actually cares for Napoleon, much to his annoyance. But he will never admit it out loud, of course. His fear of having to face the smug look on Napoleon’s face if his secret is ever out of the bag is too damning for Illya to imagine.</p><p>Five missions where the boys end up bickering/arguing and realising what they fear most about their blossoming partnership.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherever You Will Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReBeL93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReBeL93/gifts), [elkscanfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elkscanfly/gifts), [lethalin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lethalin).



i. Paris

 

There are essentially three varieties of an art forger. 

One, the person who actually creates the fraudulent piece. Two, the person who discovers a piece and attempts to pass it off as something it is not, in order to increase the piece’s value, and the third, someone who discovers that a work is a fake, but sells it as an original anyway. 

Philipe Henry, a French gentleman in his early sixties, the current minister of defence of France, also a respected art dealer and owner of a renown art gallery in Paris, unfortunately had dabbled under the third category. He had previously sold five forged paintings, passing them off as genuine to a French heiress, Monique Giraud, before he even entered French politics and now, the son of said heiress, Thierry Giraud, had found the artwork to be fake and is threatening to expose Henry’s wrongdoings to the public that could result in disastrous consequences for the minister’s political career. 

Not wanting to involve the French authorities, Henry had enlisted Waverly’s help as they had been former acquaintances and Waverly had agreed on the pretext that Henry would help boost UNCLE’s image as a credible fledgling organisation among the intelligence community in return. Promising the minister the retrieval of the forged paintings together with the false documents he had created relating to the art pieces in Giraud’s hands, he quickly assigned the case to Napoleon and Illya, much to Napoleon’s delight. Illya, however, was a little concerned at his partner’s over-eagerness.

“Remember, we are only to take those five paintings, the file containing those documents, and nothing else.”

“I’ll try my best, Peril,” Napoleon answers, trying his utter best to heed Illya’s warning. 

They are now on the top floor of the mansion belonging to the Giraud’s after Napoleon had somehow wormed his way through the heiress’ son’s good books and managed to get the information they needed regarding the location of the paintings. 

“Hurry up, Cowboy. We should be among guests at the party downstairs, not creeping through dark hallways in our host’s mansion,” Illya says, annoyed. 

“Instead of grumbling, you should be thankful I had managed to get us invitations to this party they’re holding,” Napoleon mutters.

“I am thankful, but I don’t like what we’re doing here.”

“ _You_ should be downstairs among the guests as a distraction, Peril. _I_ should be here doing this. But clearly you don’t trust me enough.”

“I trust you to do your job. But I don’t trust you staying clear out of trouble.”

“Huh, that’s very heartwarming to know.”

Napoleon does not want to say anything else after that, for there is truth in Illya’s words. He does seem to have a knack of getting himself into trouble. Either that or trouble will come looking for him. And Illya, he is not cut out for this thieving work. Clearly this is up Napoleon’s ally, but he could not let him go off alone. Despite their constant bickering, he actually cares for the American agent, much to his annoyance. But he will never admit it out loud, of course. His fear of having to face the smug look on Napoleon’s face if his secret is ever out of the bag is too damning for Illya to imagine.

They are opening doors to rooms, one after the other until finally they come to what Napoleon figures is the master bedroom.

“Cowboy, are the paintings in here?” Illya asks, his voice a hushed whisper. 

“If the information I’d gotten from Thierry is correct then the paintings should be in here. The documents are placed behind the respective paintings. Not in a file as earlier thought. Makes our job easier.”

After Illya had closed the door behind them, they quickly move inside the spacious room where a large Victorian king sized bed is placed in the middle of it with two matching bedside tables placed on either side of the bed. The ceiling is decorated with ornaments with a large crystal chandelier placed right above the bed, the floor laden with thick Persian rugs and paintings of various kinds hung all around the bedroom walls. The decoration is too excessive for Illya’s taste but feels Napoleon might have a liking for it. He gives Napoleon a side glance, who is obviously taking his time admiring the paintings before him. 

“Are any of those what we’re looking for?” he questions after a beat or two. Napoleon shakes his head. “Nope, not these.”

“But you said they are in the master bedroom. _This is_ the master bedroom.”

“It is here. He must have placed them in a hidden room somewhere,” Napoleon answers, forcing his point. 

Illya wants to argue, but when Napoleon opens the door to what looks like a walk-in closet and flashes his torchlight inside, he sees what they are looking for are stacked neatly against the back closet wall. 

“Bingo! Found it, Peril.”

As Illya is about to say something to his partner, the telephone in the room starts to ring, the shrill ringing sound startling both men at once.

“Well that’s unexpected,” Napoleon mutters, then he asks Illya. “Should we pick that up?” 

“No, not a good idea.” Illya says, knows they will be expecting company soon enough. “No time to get out without being seen too. We have to hide.”

“Closet?” Napoleon suggests and even if he wants to argue, Illya is left with not much of a choice. 

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get in!” Illya says, a little irritated that he has to go along with Napoleon’s plan. 

He shoves the American inside, quickly closes the door when he hears footsteps fast approaching the room. But to Illya’s horror, Napoleon trips on something in the darkened closet and with nothing else to hold onto, he instinctively pulls at the Russian’s jacket for support. Illya, caught off guard by Napoleon’s sudden movement, starts to lose his balance as well and soon both men are tumbling down the floor, with Illya falling on top of Napoleon in a dull thud. However, thank goodness for thick rugs and the sound of the phone ringing or else the racket they had made would have attracted anybody’s attention.

“Fuck, Illya!” Napoleon groans. The Russian landing on top of him almost knocks him out his breath. “How much do you weigh?”

He wants to push Ilya off his body but then the sound of the bedroom door opening prevents him from doing so. Illya’s hand has clamped down over his mouth, gesturing for him to be quiet. Napoleon could only imagine how scandalous the position of their bodies is currently at the moment, him being pinned down by Illya with one of his big giant hands over his mouth. He wants to grin at the thought, but there is a thunderous look on Illya’s face as if understanding Napoleon’s thoughts, as if saying, ‘Don’t you dare’ and Napoleon just stays still underneath the Russian. 

They could hear feet shuffling towards the bedside table where the telephone is placed before the call is picked up. 

“It’s Thierry,” Napoleon mouths at Illya as soon as he hears the man’s voice. 

They start to listen to his conversation, the person calling him from the other end obviously a friend, and Thierry is going on and on about the party and how an attractive dark haired man named Jack Devon had left him too early for his liking. And the things he had planned to do with Napoleon’s alias, the way he had described it in detail, had left Illya a little red faced and angry. Napoleon, however, was amused.

“I’d certainly left a good impression on him.”

“Shut up,” Illya hisses and Napoleon holds back the urge to laugh.

The conversation finally ends after about fifteen excruciating minutes much to Illya’s relief. 

“He’s gone now,” Illya mutters after they hear the bedroom door closing.

Once Illya is up on his feet, he offers a hand to his partner who is still sprawled on the floor, yanks him up with one swift motion. 

“Damn, you almost ripped my arm off there, Peril.”

He is jostling his arm but Illya chooses to ignore the American’s exaggerated comments, only exhales hard.

“We’re lucky this time, Cowboy,” Illya says. “Maybe not so lucky next time.”

“Yeah, and the next time? I get to pick the place we need to hide. And you’re not going to crush me down with your weight like that.”

Illya grunts. “It cannot be helped. And when you want to find a place for us to hide next time, make sure it is not some kind of closet. Choose something more spacious.”

“Oh, did you not enjoy our moment earlier, Peril?” Napoleon asks with one raised eyebrow. The grin that accompanies his remark makes Illya squirm uncomfortably. He is annoyed that the feeling of Napoleon’s warm body underneath his is still fresh in his mind. In the end, he merely growls.

“Shut up. We need to finish this and get out of here quick. Get the paintings.”

He then shoves past Napoleon, hoping hard the American had not noticed the flush which had formed on his cheeks. Napoleon only chuckles because he totally had. 

“Whatever you say, Peril. Whatever you say.”

Clearly, making Illya squirm is fast becoming his favourite past time. 

 

ii. Edinburgh

 

“This is the second time we are tip toeing in mansions in the space of a month.”

“Stop grumbling, will you? It’s not like we have a choice. The mission clearly states that we are to retrieve the stolen list from Tom Janson’s mansion’s safe. And we have successfully done that. So relax.”

If Illya is not the most adorable angry Russian Napoleon has ever met, he would have probably begged Waverly for a transfer. He is getting too attached to Illya for his liking and no matter how much he grumbles during missions, Napoleon cannot seem to get annoyed at his partner. Not even when he is breathing down his neck, complaining about missions in mansions and how to get out of the sticky situation they are currently in. 

Tom Janson, a former CIA operative, had somehow managed to steal a list of CIA agents who had gone rogue from the CIA’s file archive and who better to retrieve it back than Napoleon himself. UNCLE had been contacted by the CIA and naturally, once Napoleon is assigned to the case, Illya is roped in together as well. When Napoleon had suggested he could go in alone, Illya had vehemently disagreed, threatening to destroy Waverly’s newly decorated office if he ever entertained the idea. The pragmatic Englishman had no other choice but to agree with his Russian agent.

“You do realise Waverly is our boss?” Napoleon had said to Illya on their way to Edinburgh but Illya only brushed off Napoleon’s remark. “Even if he is boss, it doesn’t mean I can let him get away with stupid decisions.”

“Aww, Illya, sometimes I feel as if you really do care about me.”

“Don’t push your luck, Cowboy,” he had replied with a death glare at the American and Napoleon immediately dropped the subject altogether. 

Fast forward a few days later, they managed to break into Tom Janson’s mansion without any problems, a relatively smaller one compared to the one they had been in Paris, but somehow, escaping out of the building is slightly harder than they had figured. The tight hallways and the dull lighting of the mansion are making it a little trickier for the two spies to escape. And now, they find themselves cornered and Illya is seriously getting agitated. The only way for them to get out is through the top bedroom window but to get there, they would have to go past the approaching angry voices coming their way. 

“How come ex CIA operative can afford a mansion like this?”

Napoleon cannot believe Illya is trying to make small talk at a time like this. “I don’t know. He’s a rich bastard I suppose,” Napoleon simply says. After a while, Illya is back to his tensed self. 

“Cowboy, are you hearing this? Goons are coming nearer.”

He has kept his temper in check so far, but when Illya starts poking at his shoulder, Napoleon lets out a low groan.

“Yes, I do hear it, Peril.”

Illya’s hand is already gripping his gun but Napoleon quickly grabs hold of his wrist. “No, not yet. We don’t want to make a scene. And I’m trying to avoid as much paperwork as we can. Remember? Dead bodies equal more paperwork.”

Napoleon is too nonchalant for Illya’s liking even when they are still not out of the woods. Suddenly, a thought entered Illya’s head.

“Did you trigger any alarm?”

Napoleon’s eyes grow wide at Illya’s accusing remark. “Do you hear any?!”

“Maybe there are silent ones.”

For a moment, Illya thinks their luck is about to run out, figures they would be caught when the sounds of footsteps are right around the corner of the hallway they are at, but before he has time to muse over it, Napoleon’s hand tugs and shoves him inside a tiny broom closet, laden with brooms, floor mops and dustpans. Careful not to trip themselves over anything like they had unceremoniously done so the last time, Napoleon then closes the door quietly, puts a finger on his lips, gestures for Illya to be quiet. The arguing men are now walking along the hallway just outside their hiding place. Instinctively, Illya presses his body closer against Napoleon, like he is shielding him. It is his turn to put his finger on his lips. 

“Be quiet,” he hushes and Napoleon can’t help but roll his eyes. 

“That was my idea,” he grumbles lowly but Illya simply ignores him. He peeks through the gap on the door panel, sees four men rummaging around the opposite room. 

“There’re four of them. All with weapons. Wearing ski masks. They are not Janson’s men.”

Napoleon looks puzzled. “Robbers?”

Illya shrugs, shakes his head. All throughout, he keeps Napoleon’s back pressed up against the wall. “Do not move,” he warns. 

The American could not even if he wants to. The space between them is pretty confined and Napoleon can’t quite figure out where to put his hands. And there is no other way to look but straight up into Illya’s eyes, whose face is so close, he could feel his warm breath against his cheek. He senses the Russian is tensing up the longer time ticks by. Napoleon struggles for a moment at the position of their bodies and then gives up thinking, settles his hands around Illya’s waist, in the end, earning a slightly startled gasp from the taller man. 

“Don’t break my arms, this is the only way to do this without me getting squashed further by you,” Napoleon whispers, his voice close to his ear and even under the dim light, Illya could see that toothy grin from Napoleon. 

“Somehow, we’re making this a nasty habit.”

“Stop it,” Illya warns.

“The only difference is, we were horizontal the last time round.”

“Chyort,” Illya mumbles underneath his breath. Napoleon is really testing his patience. When the rummaging and the shuffling outside stops, Napoleon slowly eases his hands away from Illya, moves their bodies apart. 

“That’s not so hard now, was it, Peril?” 

Illya backs away and scoffs. They wait for a few more minutes and then he opens the door, pokes his head out just to make sure the coast is clear before sighing out loud, perhaps relieved the men had left, or to be more precise, relieved that he is out of that confined space, out where he could breathe properly without having to worry how close he had been in Napoleon’s hold. 

“You okay there, Peril?”

“I am fine. But next time, I will look for place to hide, not you.”

“Already looking forward to the next time I see?” Napoleon asks, tilts his head and Illya does not say anything, simply walks past him in a huff.

Napoleon laughs and not wanting to waste more time, he quickly follows Illya through their original escape route. And a disgruntled Illya will let Napoleon have his way this time, although he will ensure the next time they are stuck in a closet, their bodies won’t be too close to each other for comfort. 

 

iii. Dubai

 

They stumble in silence as the warehouse they had infiltrated burn freely behind them. There is no mistake the building will collapse soon. The dust and bright embers fill the air, rise up on fiery drafts. The heat makes the air around them flicker. And the condition, no doubt, is not from the fiery building alone, but also due to the current taut tension between both men, trying their best to avoid an imminent confrontation. 

“What?” Napoleon finally says, breaking the awful silence first. 

The sound of Illya’s jaws clenching was getting to him. The Russian’s scowl deepens as he grabs at Napoleon’s left arm. 

“We work together, yes?” he starts.

“Of course,” Napoleon answers curtly. 

“So the next time you plan on doing something, you need to tell me about it. Especially when that plan involves doing something really stupid that could jeopardise your life.” 

Napoleon does not try to pry himself away from Illya’s bruising grip. Instead, his eyes bore on him like a challenge. 

“Well that plan of mine did save our lives and we got we wanted in the end. So, I don’t think you could call it a stupid idea, Peril.”

“Oh, please!” Illya exclaims, clearly unimpressed. “It is stupid! You get yourself captured by a psychopath, set the place on fire while you are still in that room full of explosives knowing I was outside, free to escape with the information secured! You are only alive because I broke the door down, killed those men and pulled you out of it.”

“It was a distraction you needed. The spy in you will know why I’d done it. It was for the mission.”

“Shut up,” Illya warns. 

“You don’t like what I say, Illya?”

Illya’s fist almost collides with the American’s face then but he holds back just at the last moment. This is not what he wanted. It was never his intention to hurt Napoleon but his partner seemed intent to push his buttons, trying to push him over the edge, like he wants Illya to hurt him.

He then looks challengingly at Napoleon, whose calm manner is infuriating him at the moment. Illya knows exactly why Napoleon had done what he did. He had done it with the hope that Illya would be able to get to Waverly with the information already secured in his hands. With the mission completed, there was no real need for Illya to turn back to get him. That had been Napoleon’s intention and Illya knows it. What Napoleon had not expected was for the Russian to break through the door, killed the men who had held him captive in a bloodbath too horrific to describe. 

“Illya, you can’t be angry with me. Not for what I’d done. Because I know you’d have done the same thing if you had been in my position. And you cannot lie to me on that. You know you can’t.”

Illya wants to snap. He is angry because Napoleon is right. And he cannot rebuff what he had said. But the idea of Napoleon trying to sacrifice his life, just so Illya could get to safety still does not sit well with him. 

“You assume I would do it,” he tries to argue. He holds up a hand when Napoleon tries to interrupt him. “Let me finish.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“You assume I would do it, and yes, I admit, I would do it if it was me in that room. But Cowboy, you…you can’t keep doing it! You can’t keep doing things like you are indispensable!” he shouts in the end. He feels the fight has left him, struggles with what he really wants Napoleon to know. “You understand me, Cowboy?”

“So you’re saying it’s not okay for me to keep doing it but it’s okay if the table’s turned? Fuck, if that happens we’ll be having this same argument too, Illya. Trust me. But it’ll be me that’s shouting like a mad man instead of you.”

Napoleon’s chest heaves and his voice trembles in suppressed anger. And for a while, Illya’s rendered speechless at the American’s outburst. He tries to avert his gaze from his partner, his eyes straying towards the fire behind them. At the fiery sight, Illya shudders at the thought if he had failed to break down the door in time, doubles over at the thought of Napoleon perishing in the fire. He groans.

“Illya.”

He looks up into Napoleon’s concerned eyes. His hands are on Illya's shoulders, squeezes them like an assurance. “I’m sorry if I had you worried.”

Something in Illya’s gut twisted at that moment. His conscience is clear. His worry for Napoleon earlier is not because he is his partner. It is because of something else Illya knows too well, something that has been brewing inside of him for the past few months, something in which he cannot prevent. He realises the complications it could lead to would be too big to fathom but he is helpless to prevent his treacherous heart. 

“You don’t need to say sorry. I understand it.”

Napoleon’s grip on Illya’s shoulders tightens, tries to make him understand his point. “No, seriously, I’m sorry that I’d done it. But next time, if it helps, I’ll try to give you some warning. Try not to make you worry too much.”

“Still not funny, Cowboy.”

Before Illya knows anything else, he is pulled into a fierce hug. At first, Illya’s hands are stiff at his sides, but slowly, they come up and Illya curls his arms around Napoleon’s broad shoulders. 

“If it had been you in there instead of me, I’d lose my shit too, Illya, but admittedly, I’d do what I’d done a hundred times over if it means me saving you,” Napoleon admits in his ear. 

Illya tries to remain unaffected at Napoleon’s honesty but it is indeed beginning to be a hard act to keep up. He pulls away immediately and ruffles the American’s hair. 

“You are an idiot.”

“But that’s why you love me, right?”

Illya does not want to say anything to that. He simply shakes his head. “Let’s go. There is no further need for us to stay here,” he says in the end. “We’ve to contact Waverly.”

“After you,” Napoleon answers.

Illya then walks off with Napoleon following closely behind him, unaware the American is slightly disheartened when Illya had failed to answer his teasing question.

 

iv. Karachi

 

Illya could taste blood and he is certain it is his. His lung is full of smoke just like the air now is filled with it. His ears are ringing. He lays there for a moment, tries to make sense of what had happened. He then takes a deep breath, coughs, and tries to focus on his surroundings. He realises it now. There had been an explosion. A pretty powerful one and it had thrown him off the ground like a rag doll, the blast catching him off guard. The nearby buildings caught in the blast are on fire now, shattered windows and flames twisting around the area, like fury too hard to be contained. Black ash rise into the air and the noise of alarms clamouring around, ringing in his ears reminds him of someone missing from his presence. 

“Solo? _Solo!”_

Illya’s heart races. Where is Napoleon? His still blurry vision darts in panic as he tries to search for his partner. He is instantly reminded of how the American had been running at his side, trying to escape Kabil Assad and his men, furious that they had stolen his blueprint to build a network of mobile nuclear missiles launch sites in Pakistan, just before the explosion hit. His heart constricts in terror. Surely Napoleon couldn’t be… _no_ , Illya does not even want to entertain that idea. He could not.

“Napoleon!” he shouts again. 

People are scrambling around the area, some crying, some in panic. But he cannot see Napoleon anywhere. Illya starts to notice the injured bodies on the ground, unmoving, bleeding and his heart drops at once when he spots the dark haired man in that familiar black tactical gear slumped a few meters from where he had been thrown off. 

“Cowboy!”

He staggers to Napoleon, the pain in his leg preventing him from going any faster than he wanted. When he reaches Napoleon, he drops to his knees at once. Carefully, he turns Napoleon around so he would be able to see the extent of his injuries. He searches for his pulse with trembling fingers, sags in pure relief when he finds a heartbeat. Napoleon’s injury seems to be fairly superficial, with a few scratches on his cheeks and forehead, but Illya cannot be too certain. 

“Cowboy, can you hear me?”

He cradles Napoleon’s body against his chest, taps his cheeks a couple of times, but when he does not get a response, he starts to get a little frantic, starts to shake Napoleon’s body with more force. “Napoleon, _please_ , if you can hear me.”

It must have been mere minutes but it felt like an eternity for Illya before Napoleon finally opens his eyes. “Peril, what…what happened?”

Letting out a ragged breath, Illya helps Napoleon up to a sitting position. But when Napoleon tries to stand on his feet, he grimaces, gasps out a pained cry, quickly puts a hand on his ribs. Illya is quick to place an arm around the American’s waist, mindful not to place too much pressure on his side which is clearly injured. When Illya lifts his shirt up to have a closer look, he sees a deep bruising down the left hand side of Napoleon’s torso. He frowns.

“This is not good.”

“Perhaps a busted rib,” Napoleon groans. The panic surrounding them quickly alerted Napoleon to the situation they are in. “Bomb?” he asks Illya who is still giving him a worried look. 

“Car bomb, exploded while we’re running from Kabil. But I don’t think it is related to him, this explosion.”

“Are they…?”

Illya shakes his head. “I am not sure if the bomb took his men out. Can’t see them anywhere.”

“It’s not safe for us to be here,” Napoleon says. 

Illya cannot disagree with the American on that. He starts to tug at Napoleon’s arm, wanting to move him from the middle of the carnage when Napoleon realises Illya’s injured. He is bleeding profusely from his forehead. He must be concussed enough not to notice that earlier but then the dizzy motion starts to get to him. Despite himself, he still manages to ask Illya about the blood dripping from his temple.

“Are you aware that you’re bleeding?”

His hand instantly fly up to check on the Russian’s wound but Illya catches his wrist in one swift motion. “I’m okay. Just a gash. You know how head wounds are, Cowboy. More importantly, we need to get out of here first. We need to check on your ribs.”

Napoleon had been wounded numerous times before, his broken ribs are not a big deal. What he is more concerned about at the moment is Illya’s head injury and Napoleon is a little annoyed how Illya is being dismissive of his own well-being.

“Peril, you might have a concussion. We need to have it checked.”

“So do you, Cowboy. Your eyes seemed unfocused. We need to get to a doctor.”

Sure enough, as soon as Illya had said that, Napoleon doubles over as he feels a searing pain rip through his head. Illya catches him before he could fall to the ground and quickly calls for help from the scurrying medic running around the area. 

***

“You finally decide to open your eyes.”

Napoleon blinks. Illya is peering down at him with a small smile plastered on his lips. 

“Where are we?”

“In a makeshift medical tent. Still in Karachi. I’ve called in Gaby. UNCLE medics will be here soon to pick us up.”

Napoleon, who is lying on a stretcher, reaches up one hand to skim his fingers on Illya’s bandaged head. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s you that had suffered most, not me.”

“Ahh, Peril. Always wanting to be the hero.”

“Nyet, I am being serious.”

Napoleon smiles. “Relax, all is fine now, Peril.”

Without realising it, Illya has taken Napoleon’s hand in his. He weaves their fingers together, and without giving it further thought, he brings his palm to his lips and kisses it lightly. Napoleon wants to say it must be the painkiller drugs they had administered to the Russian that is making him do this. Or maybe it is the drugs in his own system that is making him see things. 

“Did you just kiss my hand?”

Napoleon clears his throat when Illya remains quiet. “Illya?”

“I was worried I had lost you,” he answers, his voice small. It breaks Napoleon’s heart a little at hearing the pure worry in his voice. There is no denying the frightened tone isn’t made up. It is as real as it gets. Illya, his big angry Russian partner had actually been scared and he had been the cause of it. 

“Hey, Peril. I’m fine. We’re both fine. There’s no need to worry anymore.”

Napoleon pulls Illya’s hand in his, places it over his heart. “See? My heart’s beating. I’m breathing.” Then he puts their hands over Illya’s chest, where his heart is. “And you’re breathing too.”

“But this worrying business, it won’t stop here, will it?” 

“It won’t,” Napoleon answers. Then, it is his turn to kiss Illya’s palm. “But it’s a good thing worrying together. I’d hate it if I was the only one doing the worrying.”

Illya chuffed out a strained laugh. “You can’t be serious even for one second.”

“That’s why you love me, right?”

That’s the second time Illya is hearing that from Napoleon. And he still cannot find the strength to answer him truthfully. 

“It seems the medicine have messed up with your brain, Cowboy,” is all Illya could answer. 

Napoleon lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. The answer he wants to hear from Illya has yet to come but he is patient enough to wait although he worries time won’t be too kind on them the longer the words are left unspoken.

“Yeah, maybe it is the medicine,” he offers in the end.

“Just rest, Cowboy. Rest.”

Napoleon takes a moment before finally saying, “You’re going soft on me, Kuryakin.”

Art is a lie that brings one nearer to the truth and if Illya has perfected his art of lying, then Napoleon will soon find out what he truly feels for the American. 

 

v. Brocken

 

“This isn’t going to work,” Napoleon argues.

They had been running along the river bank, managed so far to dodge their assailants but had not expected the course of the river to be interrupted by that damn waterfall they are now at. Napoleon is staring at the single drop, at least ten meters high, and he knows what Illya is thinking. At the moment, they are running out of options. 

“This is a bad idea, Peril.”

The plunge pool below looks rough as it flows downstream. What he worries is the undercurrents, which he knows can be especially powerful if they are not careful. 

“We don’t have any other choice!” Illya shouts. Their enemies are getting nearer. “Cowboy, you are out of ammunition. We can’t take them all. It’s too dangerous.”

The fear of caring for someone comes with the fear of losing them. And Illya cannot afford to lose Napoleon. He would do anything to ensure his safety and that’s when Illya decides. At least, it will give Napoleon a fighting chance to escape. 

“You have to jump, Cowboy!”

Napoleon is a bit confused at Illya’s choice of words. “You mean _we_ have to jump!” 

Illya turns his head away, looks behind them. Their enemies will be upon them any minute from now. He faces Napoleon again, and their eyes meet head on. For a split second, that determined emotion flicks across Illya’s face and Napoleon’s eyes widen when he understands what Illya is about to do.

“I know you’re a good swimmer, Solo. You saved me from water once.”

“What?”

Before Napoleon can process Illya’s words, he is being pushed over and he yells as he plunges down the waterfall. As he was falling, sounds of gunshots ring through the air before his body hits the water below. He struggles, his arms flailing as he is pulled underneath by the swirling current but, fortunately, it is not as strong as he had feared. With a monumental effort, he manages to swim up, taking in huge gasps of air as he breaks to the surface. He coughs and tries to push his body to swim towards the edge of the river. 

As he drags himself up to the wet, muddy ground, he could only think of Illya and what he had done. Once on top, Napoleon rolls onto his back and crashes, still stunned and gasping for breath. He’s alive but what about Illya? Save for the sound of the gushing, swirling water, he could only hear silence above him. His heart falters, fears for the worse before he blanks out.

***

“Napoleon? Can you hear me? Hey?”

Hands slip under his arms and Napoleon feels he is being lifted off the ground by someone. Instinctively he fights, flails and tries to throw a weak punch at whoever is grabbing him. But then he is held in a vice grip around his shoulders and a voice, with that accent he knows too well, is whispering words in his ear. 

“It’s me, Cowboy. Calm down. It’s me.”

He holds on to the arm securing him tight, looks blearily at the man whose chin is now resting on his shoulder. “Pe-Peril?”

“Shh, it’s me.”

“How did you…?”

“Another story, for another time.”

Napoleon groans as everything starts coming back to him in an instant. “Damn it, Illya. Why did you do that?”

He tries to pry Illya’s arms away but Illya tightens his grip on him. “Because I’m an idiot and sometimes I give in to my emotions.” Illya presses his lips on Napoleon’s temple and watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, as if he is trying to calm himself after what had happened. Perhaps he is also trying to take in what Illya had just said to him. 

“I am sorry. I had to do it,” he murmurs.

“You have no right, Illya.” 

This time, Illya lets Napoleon go when he twists free from his hold. The American staggers to his feet, his jaws clenching tight, his eyes like daggers on the Russian. He takes in Illya’s appearance, silently relieved he is unhurt. But that does not mean he is going to let him off the hook.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Illya, sitting on his heels, could only soak in Napoleon’s anger. He would have probably gone berserk too if Napoleon had done what he did. But this argument they are having is not something new. In fact, they have been through this numerous times before. The only difference is, the intensity of their arguments that follows is alway a notch higher than the previous one. 

“Remember, Dubai? And the fire? This is the same thing, Solo. And you cannot be angry with me, not this time.”

“This is not about that. This is about you risking your life every time you think my life is in some kind of danger!” Napoleon almost shouts but Illya only offers a shrug.

“I think that’s pot calling the kettle black? Did I get that correct?”

Napoleon groans at the ridiculousness of the entire situation. This thing between them will never stop, the things they would do just to keep the other safe. Before, Illya was simply his partner, but now, this man has become a part of his life, a bond formed between them so strong Napoleon cannot imagine life without the Russian. His need to always protect Illya is mirrored by the Russian’s own act and he knows they have ventured into dangerous territory. In fact, they have breached that barrier a long time ago, but the realisation that the other is also now aware of that fact scares Napoleon.

He starts to walk away.

“Cowboy, wait!” 

Illya’s hand on his shoulder stops him. “Where are you going?”

“We need to get to our base, contact Gaby and Waverly. And I need to get out off these damp clothes,” he says. 

It is the truth of course. They still need to contact their superior, need to give him an update of what has happened. And Gaby needs to know they are now safe but Illya is not done yet with their argument.

“We have not finished talking.” 

“Well, what do you want me to say?”

Napoleon then storms ahead, even if he is swaying a little, stays silent without answering Illya and that makes the Russian furious. 

“You must talk me,” Illya demands once he catches up with Napoleon, puts his hands on his shoulders again and spins him around. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Napoleon mutters. When he starts to turn away again, Illya could barely restrain himself. He pleads.

“Please, Cowboy.”

Napoleon stands with his back to Illya. “This ridiculous thing has got to stop, Peril. We can’t keep saving each other like this.”

“You’re being a hypocrite. You do the exact same thing and it is okay. But you get angry when I do it.”

Napoleon’s anger, which he thought had dissipated, comes bubbling to the surface once again. Why can’t Illya see why he is so angry? 

“I cannot protect you if I am not there, Illya! I cannot save you if you keep doing something stupid like pushing me off a damn waterfall so you can take on a bunch of angry Germans by yourself!”

Illya cocks an eyebrow. “I do not need saving.”

“Well, neither do I!”

Illya, standing before him, is looking righteously angry. He has never met a more stubborn and ridiculous person than Napoleon Solo. And genuinely, he does not know what to do anymore. Perhaps leaving him alone there with his thoughts might put some sense in the American’s head. And that is what he intends to do.

“We shall finish this conversation when you start thinking like an adult, Solo.” 

“Leave me alone, Illya,” Napoleon snaps back and with that, without saying anything else, Illya walks past his partner, brushes his shoulder hard as he troops off towards their base. When Illya is gone from his sight, Napoleon could only let out a frustrated shout. 

 

+1. London

 

It had been two weeks since their big blow-up and both men had not spoken to the other the entire time. They only acknowledged each other when they had to, normally when they were with Waverly, and their childish behaviour finally had Gaby out of her wits. She told Illya to fix whatever problems they’re facing soon or she would have Waverly transfer Napoleon to another division. Although the Russian knew Gaby would never do that, she still had him worried. 

After contemplating what he would need to say to Napoleon, Illya braves himself to face his partner one evening at his apartment. Napoleon had let him in, offered him drinks and now he is on Napoleon’s armchair, facing the American lounging on his couch. 

“Gaby threatened me, told me that she would tell Waverly about us if I didn’t talk to you. Threatened to get you transferred to another division.”

Napoleon laughs and something in Illya just lifts at the sight. Maybe he has missed him that much.

“Gaby sure is feisty.”

Then there is silence. Illya chews on his bottom lips, tries to arrange his words so that Napoleon would be clear on what he wants to say when he beats Illya to it. 

“I’m sorry about our stupid fight, Peril.”

Illya sighs. His eyes are narrow on Napoleon. “I was about to say the same thing.”

“But you cannot say you don’t need protecting,” Napoleon warns, forcing Illya to think about what he’d said to him. But Illya knows he can’t be the only one that has to agree to that one golden rule.

“That goes both ways, Solo.”

Halfheartedly, Napoleon nods. “I can’t argue on that even if I don’t like it.”

“It’s just unfortunate we are both stubborn men.”

After that, it must have been ten minutes before Illya speaks again.

“Why do you need to be alone, Cowboy?

That question, totally out of the blue, stuns Napoleon to silence. He waits for a moment, tries to figure out what is going on in Illya’s head. In truth, there are a lot of things that they need to talk about. But there is only one pressing matter that Napoleon could think of. 

“In our line of work, being alone always works best, Peril. It’s no good to have any kind of emotional attachments whatsoever, especially when it is for your own partner.”

Illya perks up when he hears what sounds like an almost confession from Napoleon.

“Are you saying…?”

“Being alone will protect us.”

“You mean it will protect you.”

“If you want to put it that way, then, yes.”

There he goes, being the Napoleon that frustrates the hell out of him. At that moment, Illya simply wants to grab his shoulders, shake him until he sees that he is not making any sense at all. But there is no point in arguing because they will be right back where they had started. Illya tries to calm himself.

“So is this why you always act like you don’t care for people? When you actually do?” Illya tries again. 

Napoleon almost forgets to avert his gaze and Illya’s blue eyes lock with his. 

“Why are we talking about this?”

“Because I care about you. And if you are stupid enough not to see it then you really are an idiot.”

At that, Napoleon’s chest tightens. “Illya…”

Illya has had enough of Napoleon’s game and gives him an ultimatum.

“Tell me you don’t care and I will leave this room. And we don’t have to talk about this again.”

Illya stands to his feet and for a moment Napoleon worries Illya is going to leave, because, damn, he can’t have this hanging over his head without them coming to a resolution. He knows he cannot keep ignoring Illya. It was killing him.

Slowly, Napoleon rubs his face in his hands. Illya is one stubborn bastard. And he is the fool that has fallen for his stubbornness a hundred times over.

“Illya, you told me once that you can’t leave me alone. Told me that if you do, I’ll do stupid things and you won’t be able to protect me then.”

“Yes, I did say that.”

“And I’d said that to you as well.”

Illya nods. “Yes. So what are you saying?”

Napoleon takes in a deep breath. “Did you mean what you’d said to me?”

“Of course. Every word.”

“In that case, you know what we’ve become, Illya? We’ve become dependent on each other.”

“I’ll do it no other way, Cowboy.”

“And it’s okay for you?”

Illya nods again, stays silent this time around. At that moment, Napoleon Solo, the terrible spy who proclaims he always works best alone, realises that tagline just does not fit the bill for them any longer.

“So do you care, Cowboy? Or do you want me to leave?”

Illya’s voice pulls him out of his mini trance. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Illya lets out a breath he did not know he was holding after Napoleon’s admission. A weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Slowly, he comes over to Napoleon and takes the glass he’d been holding from his hand, sets it on the coffee table. Napoleon grumbles slightly. “Hmm, I was drinking that.”

“You can finish it later,” Illya says. Napoleon smiles up at him and Illya sees the twinkle in his eyes and feels an unexpected thrill run up and down his spine. 

“So you won’t leave?” the American asks. Illya shakes his head.

“No.”

“You’re not staying here because of me, are you?” 

“There are lots of things I do because of you, Cowboy. You just don’t know it.”

Napoleon shudders. Never has anyone said such words to him that are powerful enough to make his mind almost go blank. 

“So, what do you intend to do to me now, Peril? If I may ask,” he manages to ask a few seconds later.

But Illya does not bother to answer, simply backs Napoleon up against the arm of the couch, traps his body with his arms on either side of his shoulders. His move may see bold, given the circumstances, but he has waited for this for a long time, knows somehow, Napoleon wants this too. 

“Predatory much?” Napoleon asks. He is proud that he is still able to put up a semblance of fight against his partner, although he realises it will diminish soon enough. He does not get to say much more after that when Illya pulls his hips down against the leather cushion underneath him, making him gasp slightly. 

“I’m really intrigued now. What _are_ you planning to do to me?”

Illya leans up over him and murmurs against his lips. “A lot of things. But for now, need you to shut up.”

“Hey, now that’s not fair,” Napoleon protests, seemingly annoyed but then Illya kisses him, his fight in him gone, his mouth hot and demanding, and all the heat goes straight into Napoleon’s brain and his belly and somewhere else south of his body. Illya’s kisses are like fire igniting his entire being. His brain does not cooperate anymore, his mind short-circuiting whatever it is he had wanted to say. When Illya’s lips move to his neck, he gasps. 

“Didn’t know you could kiss this well, Peril. Had only imagined it all before this, only imagined how good you could be but…”

“Be quiet,” Illya cuts him off, murmurs into his neck, bites him gently there. His fingers begin to unbutton Napoleon’s shirt and then slides it open to reveal his torso. The American, conscious at what Illya is doing, grabs at his arms, forces him to look him in the eye.

“What?” Illya asks with brows furrowed together. Surely Napoleon does not want to stop now. 

“I’ve dreamed about this ever since our first mission together. Do you know that?”

There is that smirk on his lips and Illya growls. “Told you to shut up.”

The Russian then makes quick work of Napoleon’s shirt and when he finds himself in between Napoleon’s legs, the friction becomes a bit too much and he groans as he bends down to lick at Napoleon’s chest. Napoleon does shut up at the contact, and when Illya’s mouth travels further down still, flicking his belly button with his tongue as he slides Napoleon’s pants off, Napoleon feels the heat spread low and realises Illya is actually going to go down on him. The idea almost makes him see stars. 

With Illya’s mouth now hot on his erection, Napoleon’s face flushed, perhaps with slight embarrassment that it is Illya that is making him fall apart at the moment. His hips move on its own accord, rise up to meet Illya’s hands and mouth. He moans out loud as the licking and sucking intensify, grabbing the arm of the couch over his head for support to keep him from sliding off the couch. And then Illya is relentless on him, sucks and licks again and again and when the pressure comes to that needed crescendo, all Napoleon could think of was “Fuck, Illya has got a damn talented mouth.”

Later after coming down from his high, Napoleon props himself on his elbows to look down at Illya. His cheeks are flushed just like his own, with lips plumped and sweat glistening on his face. His hair is ruffled, flopping messily over his forehead and that look makes Napoleon fall back on the couch once again. 

“That was something else, Peril.”

But as soon as he finished his sentence, Illya’s head is back down on him once again and Napoleon shivers when he feels that tongue on his still throbbing skin. He moans. Even if he is still sensitive, he murmurs, “Don’t stop,” feels Illya smiling against his inner thigh.

“I don’t plan on stopping yet, Cowboy. Going to make you come many times.”

Napoleon’s brain barely registers what Illya intends to do to him when he starts arching up again at Illya’s deft touches. When he is almost at the edge, Illya stops. He wants to protest but then the cycle repeats cruelly for Napoleon as Illya toys with him over and over. The excruciating game goes on, Napoleon cannot keep count because he is almost mindless. Each time Illya stops when he is almost at the edge and finally, when he cannot take it any longer, he pleads, and Illya, this time, takes pity on him and keeps going, his hands now rough on his hips and Napoleon feels the heat welling up and he squirms, and arches, and thinks, “Don’t say anything or the bastard is going to stop again.”

Illya doesn’t stop and Napoleon finally comes, his body arching underneath Illya’s mouth and the aftershocks make him jerk even after Illya slides up to kiss him on his neck. 

When he had stopped trembling, still clinging tight to Illya’s arms, he hears him whisper in his ear. “I love you.” And not long after, Illya’s hand starts stroking him again to hardness and Napoleon moans, “God, Ilya, you’re going to kill me.” His words are cut off when skilful fingers start to probe him next, circling and teasing and Napoleon throws his head back at the sensation, too lost to form coherent words. But then he starts to plead, asks Illya to stop, the sensation too much for him to take, but Illya simply ignores his cries and keeps on stroking, curling his fingers where it matters, at Napoleon’s most sensitive spot and the grip the American has on Illya’s arms are bruising enough but the sight of him in sheer pleasure is enough to make Illya forget about everything else. The sight before him spurs him on, and his fingers probe and curl and Napoleon moans and howls, sweat glistening his forehead and he tosses his head back as it is getting too much for him to take.

“Fuck, Illya… _please_ , I can’t…”

“Yes, you can. You will come again for me, Cowboy. Come.”

And Napoleon does and his body curves and arches off the couch like a bow with a loud moan. The cycle repeats again for Napoleon when Illya fucks him twice that night until he is totally spent and he wonders, when he is able to think again, whether this is how it feels when one dies and goes to heaven.

***

“Am I still alive?”

“You’re alive, barely.” Napoleon feels Illya smile against his cheek.

With his back against Illya’s chest, his arms tight around him, Napoleon lets his sated body sag against Illya’s embrace. He feels his partner rain kisses on his shoulder and neck, later those lips skating softly at the back of his head. 

“This is much better than arguing,” Illya says and despite being so out of it, a small laughter escapes Napoleon. “I’ve no doubt we will be doing the arguing again soon.”

“But, at least, we know why we are arguing.”

Hearing that, Napoleon turns in his arms, and now face to face, he wants him to know what he fears the most. 

“What we would do just to save each other. It’s a rather scary thought, Peril. Aren’t you afraid?”

“I am. So afraid,” Illya answers truthfully, as he runs his fingers through Napoleon’s hair. “But I have accept this. Because there is no other way for us. But knowing you are with me now, it won’t be so bad, Cowboy.”

Napoleon kisses Illya hard on the mouth, never knows the Russian is good with words just as he is with his hands, and then he starts to accept it as well, accepts that they have come to that huge decision. And if they are to survive this crazy world they live in, they would need to look after each other instead of making it alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to dabble into the 5 times thingy. I hope it is not too bad.  
> and hope it is still not too late to wish Happy New Year to everyone. :)


End file.
